Fic: Changes ~ BtVS

[hyena_gal]

Title: Changes
Author: hyena_gal 
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Summary: A newly sired vampire. A strap-on. And various types of... smell. Golly!
Pairing: Buffy/Faith
Rating: Read the summary! NC-17.
Disclaimer: If I owned them I *would* have made them do this on telly!
Author's Notes: Set right after Afterlife - then follows unquestionably whatever my libido dictates.

 

*

That she hadn't noticed until now struck her, admittedly, as kind of weird.

But 'weird' as in decisively 'low minor key', jangled tone ringing out before getting lost a million times following that...

And echoes don't really make any difference. Never leave impressions on people because they don't have it in them to.

So -- not *that* highly ranked on the list, what with the 'Having Been Recently Reanimated' part checked off:

Vampires had a distinct *smell* to them!

Sitting in the short expanse of shared shadows, and Spike had wafted this potent mouldy wiped-off dust smell her way, like too much cologne of some importunate kind (the ones in sleazy bars).

Could of course have something to do with the fact that the guy actually *did* reside in a crypt. Must've sucked the miasma into each and every single undead pore for awhile now -- maybe just a coincidence with him, then, a singular case, because...

All these years. Buffy had always thought of vampires as being strictly *odourless* creatures. Beings of the magnificent 'non-scent'. Demons lost to the World of Fragrance. Entire business with the odd lack of sweat perhaps the reason.

Truly -- closes thing to smelly you got with them was finding socks and underwear from the time when they had been alive, thereby making it not really count, anyway!

But not an altogether unpleasant scent Spike exuded, she had to admit. Not at all.

Sort of...dirt-stained, earthy and rich and old, right *there* in her nostrils. Almost...something to hold on to.

Substantial, really.

Like the black coffin-lid above her had been. Like the parting grave soil, so soft and smother-thick, against her gasping face, hands had been. And the new night had opened over her, drawn her up, heavy, crushing down upon her, and *welcoming* her back with a thousand desperate grasping arms that needed to haul her back *into* it all once more.

That is why she will walk away, Buffy tells herself.

Right now. For the moment.

Still feels the questioning, demanding stare on her back as she strides off, leaving the bleached vampire behind, because she can *steal* this. Pretend that this is her moment.

//Just wait some minutes, Spike, a couple of hours. The sun will set. You can get out of your little shadow prison back there.

Question is: am I ever gonna get the fuck out of *mine*?//

*
 

Apparently there had been changes. The discovered ability to register blood-drinkers with her nose was just a pointless addition to all of it.

New. Different.

Changes.

Didn't really expect any more of them. But Buffy knew that, of course, it would always come back, hadn't lived all those years without learning nothing, (the way she *continued* to live, to go on and on and on, oh God, stop), and when she returned home that same night and found Willow waiting downstairs...

Of course it had to mean...something.

Something bad.

But *all* was bad now, (why didn't they see?) and how could she do it then? How could she make the differentiation tuat was so very much *needed*, which they all still believed she could, could feel and see and instinctively know to be right?

She knew. this. wasn't. right.

(Willow...what have you done?)

"Buffy, hi..."

Of the couch in a second at the first sight of her -- was there a more obvious screaming-to-heaven way of doing this?

Sighing inwardly. Out with it. This was just...a very long, very tiresome repetition.

As it always had been. She needed rest badly. Felt it picking, picking...

''Hey, Will...what's up?''

Hoped her quiet tone sounded convincingly sincere enough to pass as one that actually *cared*.

''We...need to talk,'' and the redhead *did* have enough decency to look totally awkward and uncomfortable at that given moment, which, for some reason, puzzled the Slayer.

//...And you're insecure about *this*?//

This. Whatever this was. Could it be *more* than what had happened to her?

Clearly remembered Willow's eyes on her in the living room as the Scoobies had barged in --searching, scrutinising, to see if her work, now carried out, (no turning back), was a success or a botch of phenomenal proportions.

And what Buffy *really* wanted to ask, constantly, these long hours, to end it -- which one, then? Which one did it end up being?

('What did the eyes see. What did her eyes see. What did the little witch's eyes see, in the dark, through the black')

'What is it? 'Big Bad Unknown Slimy Evil Thing' has announced its arrival in town? Need to go 'subdue' it?''

Followed by an attempt at a smile, but just felt strange, out-of.place, like stretching shredded skin across bone, and actually *hurt* to try. Maybe post post-rigor mortis shit playing in. Wasn't about to ask her best friend anytime soon if corpse characteristics were supposed to exist in this situation or what.

The single lit lamp, the darkness, hid it from the Wicca. Her face. Her mouth. Her *eyes*.

Slight shake of flame hair, before a pale hand smoothed back a few strands distractedly. ''No, not...it's nothing like that.''

Was able to watch her fretting expression, although she in turn couldn't make out the blonde's features in the dimness. That alone -- it *made* her want to smile, slow spreading, cancer-like. Didn't, though.

"I...while you were out...there was a phone call. From Angel."

Nervous twitch at the left side of the witch's mouth, from the name it seemed, and at one her eyes too, which resulted in the woman making this weird squint -- Buffy couldn't help but think Popeye right then. Bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to break the flesh in order not to giggle.

Willow with a pipe. With a red scarf around her neck, the compulsory tattoo if the anchor printed on one bare arm. Did she even like spinach?

''It's Faith. She's broken out of prison. A few days ago. They're looking for her now,,,''

And could guess, not only from the way the redhead was glaring at her now that she was supposed to grant a response, how it wasn't a monologue, how you 'had* to have an answering contrast in anything and everything.

The Unbendable Rules, all that crap.

Then again -- Willow seemed to be okay with things happening *entirely* on her own terms, didn't she?

Buffy decided to settle for a frown. Singalled thoughtfulness -- was only for show, really. She wasn't thinking about anything whatsoever in particular.

Dully observed how the faint yellow light fell sickly clear on the other female's chin, ink shadows beneath her open moist eyes, the clecnhing-unclenching of the right hand, and how she fucking oozed *expectancy*!

It didn't have any significance. Nothing of it did.

Studying her silently, answer still awaited, and she suddenly knew. Just like that -- letting herself slip into machine-mode, and Buffy was absolutely there and not-there, on auto-pilot, as she watched the emotions play across her friend's face when mechanic words dropped:

''Then...she needs to be stopped. I have to go and stop her.''

//I have to get away from here.//

She *almost* looked shocked. But not enough. Not enough. Continued calmly, because now it had been started and to stop now...

''Willow. She'll probably hurt people. They'll need help with her, you know that. She's a *Slayer*."

Would have grimaced if this had been...before, The way she made that one word sound -- nothing but filthy.

Already knew how this entire scenario would turn out: uncertainty, even a little modest apprehension and ''Buffy, I don't think'', but it all just a rehearsed given-before-begun scene, eache delivered line bringing her closer to the last one.

To the end.

//Don't care. Can't care. I can't stand being here, around all of you. I can't stand being *here*//

Slowly reaching out, letting her small hand rest on Willow's shoulder, and earning herself a consealed flinch for the gesture.

Buffy didn't even apply any pressure but could still feel the bones hidden underneath the clothing, the beating warm skin and flesh.

She could feel sloping death just below the surface. Waiting.

(What have you *done*?)

*
 

Huh.

Turned out Angel had an exclusive scent to him, too. Wet pavement, of all imaginable things! Or, how stalactites in grottoes as far underground as you can get must smell like, she imagined.

Was not surprised to find -- after all -- *he* hadn't changed in any noteworthy shining way from the last time they had met and mutually honed their brooding skills over the newly dug grave of her mother.

Not hers, at the time, but it had lingered in the ozone like acrid smoke (just a question of time, just a little while longer and then.)

//Then what?//

Still the same-ol' tall, dark, soul-infected, sulky ex-boyfriend she remembered him as. Although Buffy was pretty sure he would never own up to the word 'sulky'.

Too childish. Missed important masculine impact.

Meeting each other halfway, somewhere between L.A. and Ground Not-L.A., anonymously under a star-scattered sky, only helped to reinforce the old impression she had; not only of him, but the gritty places, the grizzled world in general.

*Had* been out of the game for a while, anyway, if that was an excuse,

Good distance between them, sad cautious nougat eyes on her face, and after a couple of stretched quiet minutes, not, thank God (at least he hot *that*) asking how *she* was, but about the others back in Sunnydale. Which was easy, and of course very fake, but -- still.

Dawn, with a slight neurotic edge to her now that big sis had returned, and poor confused Xander, who immediatedly turned to Knowledgeable Willow for guidance, Then there was Tara and Anya -- *girlfriends*, which seemed to say it all. Spike was naturally off the topic.

She would meet Giles when she returned.

And had already guessed --- Angel had agreed to this, this meeting, because he liked to think he had manners, (necessary constructed ideas of himself), was being polite, good, a gallant gentleman vampire -- (''Excuse me, but you couldn't spare me a gallon or two of your blood, could you?'')

And could see in his wistful Saint Bernard eyes (not just his),

That she wasn't supposed to be here.

Plain as day. He was simply too self-aware, too careful of his steps, acting like a perplexed animal figuring out an approach to another hitherto alien creature.

Probably sniffing the air secretly to catch the wrongness which had to be there....

Dead Slayers were supposed to *remain* dead once they'd served their purpose, weren't they?

(*Not* like Angel, but not...like anything else, either.)

So it was simple instinct playing in; observe, remain passive, protect (keep her away from) the ones you love, the frail humans who break so unbelievably quickly and make so so many silly mistakes and who fight and lust and live and betray in great big repetitive cycles and.

And.

Yes, Buffy knew, with a reassuring calming acceptance, and no trace of sadness in it,

//They were.//

*
 

He leaves then. Like he did years before, when she was younger and believed *being* still was a size which could be tackled, and the sensation of déja-vu isn't as...comfortable as she would have liked it to be.

But he lets her borrow his car. Of this century. Soot-black. What else? Does make it a bit easier to get around, without drawing tons of attention --- would have found it fitting, not to mention true to character, if it had been a *hearse* he'd shown up in.

Angel had predictably felt obliged to offer his help. With a soul plus a conscience -- sort of dictated you had to reach your saving hand out to a former sweetheart, having fed each other love and blood and the stuff in-between.

After all.

One of the numerous reasons why Buffy insisted on searching alone, then.

Gave some farfetched explanation about 'Slayer connection', 'having to do this her way', and he had stared at her, made small understanding nods, and yeah, leave the leprous ex, let *have* it her way, don't argue with...

What was once her.

//Fuck, Angel, make it *more* obvious that you don't want to be near me, why don't you?//

Didn't feel it for long, though.

In exchange, lets her in on the pieces of information they have; sparse. The last whereabouts of Faith where she'd reportedly been spotted...before he disappears. Back to arms and faces which were alive and *real*, away from the dark which told him of his own too close nature.

Listens to the ground crunch meaningfully beneath wheels as she drives away from the nameless motel of their tryst.

*

And goes hunting.

It wasn't really a lie when she told him about the 'connection'. It's just...harder now. Where there used to be less strenuous work before. Things lost for good, into the large black hole which shse unknowningly fell down in herself long ago.

Cruising -- windows rolled down, head slightly tilted to invite any sort of useful clue and Buffy has a moment, there and then gone, of feeling what she guesses old dirty pigs out looking for cheap pussy must feel, sweating in their cars.

Because...it's about what you sense. What you *think* is there, without really knowing it, without having seen or smelled or touched or licked your tongue across it.

The string is rusted. But it is there. Moving back and forth with an inch, sawing down into the tender flesh of her pink insides, pushing, pulling her onwards, always, when it is meant to be felt, like crusted intrusive barbed wire.

Four days spent only driving, to and fro, the weather-beaten road.

Not even *in* Los Angeles; but the outskirts, vast area just outside, before Buffy locates something that tugs and whirls crazily at her brains, faintly, microscopically, making her fingers grip uncontrollably at the round steering wheel.

She is in a particularly *seedy* part of the American map; grimy ghetto, with abandoned rundown apartments in abundance, doped hookers who eye her with a mixed expression of Fuck me/Fuck off and leftover syringes and debris at the kerb.

'Pretty' side of Orange County or something. Really family-friendly: 'Make sure to bring the kids!'

In any other situation --- downright suicide to get out now and start walking in a random direction here, in the middle of the night, for *fuck's* sake, but has to, has to.

There were airy fibres, invisible particles snapping their electricity in tiny sparks, leading her not by the nose, but more by the *forehead*, skull behind it, prickling and jabbing the outlines of the route she should take.

Moving quickly -- and when she finds the place, what appears to a junkie's hideout, steps quietly inside the thick shades, since the broken door is off its hinges anyway, (still considered trespassing?), she isn't anything resembling scared or nervous or (relieved) worried.

She tries to make as little noise as possible, nit the floorboards creak obscenely loud, like something out of a stupid B-horror movie. A dog yelps somewhere outside suddenly.

It is only when she has walked through darkness for a while, glinting dots floating in her line of vision, that the splintered light creeping turtle-slow out under the crack of a door is noticed.

Something about *not* opening Door No. 2, before her hand is reaching, fold of the velvet night around it, closing on the knob and turning...

Like it matters.

*
 

Lonely bulb dangling from the spotted ceiling, its glow weak, steadily weakening,

But enough to see by; the single small table, huge blotches on the walls, the hideous olive-coloured couch, ripped, tears the size of hands, spattered with dark brownish stains, placed right below the limited light source. Reproduction of that Prodigy video with the alligator.

Behind it, further away, another door, opened, more darkness spilling from it. If not for the edge of a once-white bed peeking out just around the corner.

And from it.

A naked foot. Bloodless. Delicate blue veins, neon-green polish on the dainty toes.

The abnormal stillness of it makes it almost *uplifiting* when there is movement, when someone walks lazily out from the room, the drape of shadows, before stopping short, catching sight of the immobile Slayer distractedly.

Same wet smile as that time. Some things never change.

Faith. No longer a teenaged girl, gloriously woman, stark naked, and...when exactly did she get a cock? All crimson, jutting rigidly out from her crotch, the leather straps black, soft-looking, hugging her hips like horny friend.

''Buffy.''

Just...quietly acknowledging her presence, tone of amusement in it,

Beneath the powerful rot, the choking decay which the entire tight space vomits out; guessed it would be *something* resembling Slightly sour -- but mostly mixed cigarette smoke and whiskey, with a tint of withered jasmines.

The tiny red smear on a pale cheek. But already...and it's no good, never.

Disgusted sneer. ''You're dead.''

Both dark eyebrows arching in mock shock for a second before falling. Picks up her sluggish advancement undauntedly, sliding around the damaged couch, dropping down heavily on it.

''Glad to see you too''. Sigh -- flaccid smile this time.

Slender hand grabbing hold of the crumpled pack of Marlboro next to her, along with a translucent plastic lighter. A small frown on that way too white face, (but she'd always been pale, hadn't she?), as she fished a single one out.

''From what I've heard -- shouldn't you be as well?''

Arms crossing, at the words or the obviously relaxed behaviour of the brunette, Buffy didn't know, but she *could* glare menacingly, burn a fucking hole into the inhuman being in front of her solely with her eyes.

''Angel told you?'' And wasn't even feeling...betrayed?

(Others who made *that* work)

Short affirming nod. ''Before I left the can. Before...well, *this* happened.'' Nonchalant shrug indicating her current undead condition. Orange flame ignited above the curled fist, making the skin look... unreal.

One arm slung over the back of the sofa, legs spread comfortably, invitingly, dildo rearing grotesquely up from between them like a blind mole, and drawing carefully on the cigarette, Faith continued slowly:

''You don't wanna know what happened?''

Shifted a bit, but only to appease her complaining feet. Her legs were aching. Hoped she would get a chance to sit down soon. Didn't care much for the other female's unaccountable *placidity*.

''No, not really.'' It was the truth. Flat sad reality of it.

Disbelief and a smirk formed. ''You absolutely serious? 'Saint fucking Buffy' doesn't give a flying fuck what exactly happened to poor lil' me since we last met? Damn. Some difference there from the old you, huh, *B*?''

''It's been awhile, Faith. We all grow older...'' Sounded so weary, more than she could remember ever sounding before. Made her want to *cringe* or something.

''Or get dead along the way. Yeah, whatever,'' puff of grey smoke from predator mouth, drifting up, forming floating London mist under the cracked bulb, the unpleasant margarine light.

Her eyes were goddamn *coal black*, two holes scraped out in a now mature serious face, staring at her quietly for some moments before talking lowly again.

''Been wondering how the 'new girl' looks, though. If she's edible-looking enough, I might try to find her, y'know, just for the fuck of it.'' Grim grin following the sentence, daring her to react.

So typical. Still.

Buffy glanced in the direction of the other room. Death reek rolling out from it in sticky smothering waves. But not quite enough to upset her stomach. Maybe only a *couple* of cut-off body parts lying in there, allowed to fester as they saw fit.

''Not her, then?''

Shake of the dark head, a genuine smile, more creepy than wry,

''Nooo....met this one some hours ago at a strip-bar. I'm actually pretty convinced I've seen her in jail. Three cells away from mine. No Choseness to the girl in any way.''

//Oh well, I guess *that* should calm me somewhat.//

A little while before it was Buffy's turn to flash a grim smile, bright ugly flare in the tomb room.

''Last time we met I distinctively recall it being a *guy* you fucked.''

Response -- a long deep pull on the stump of nicotine, the shorter watching woman wishing she'd asked Spike just once how the hell that exactly *worked*, what with a pair of very inactive lungs. But then the set of holes seemed to fix on the smoke, the ash grey-coating the end, the falling of it.

''What can I say? Picked up habits while behind bars. Don't tell me Mr Beefcake and you are still a couple.''

And the way the blonde stayed silent, the following disdainful expression on her face said everything.

Clutching darkness, fillling it all up, the quiet and distance, the pungent smell, in *everything*, moulding the words that came fleshsoft and shadowgliding like death during summer nights then.

''I never stopped thinking *about* you, Buffy. Too many hours.''

Wonderingly spoken, head lolling back to rest, throat exposed, offered, (comic reversal), more black glaring at her under drowsy half-closed lids. The look of a tired hungry dog catching onto the whiff of strung-out reachable meat.

Didn't mean to notice but watched as anaemic nipples began to grow stiff, mimicking life and rebelling against all the surrounding cool smooth alabaster. She'd never seen Faith naked. Strange time to really *feel* the realisation of it.

Slightest baring of (unchanged) straight human teeth in waking lust, growing arousal causing speech to come out more growling, gravelly, natural:

''When I'm fucking some needy dyke into the sheets back there...I think of you, your fist punching me, again and again. I think of you, ramming my knife into me. I imagine the smell of my own blood, down, splashing over your hands. Makes me cum.

"And when they fuck *me*, I imagine during it to you -- snapping your bones, slicing your stomach open, burying my face in all the pretty blood and guts I know is just hidden in there, like a motherfucking piñata. Just makes me cum *harder*...''

And Buffy is still hanging somewhere around the unspecified confused mental middle-ground; absentmindedly insulted at the comparison to a piñata *and* sensing the tension, drawn tight *tight* like an expanding pulse within shrinking glass, sensing the shattering of it --- when the taller girl lunges at her, lion-style.

Not certain she wanted to hear, ever needed to be 'Undead Faith's Confidante', and is reaching for the tucked-in stake, quickly, but she's already there, there and crushing her to an abundance of exposed wrong skin, and Buffy suddenly wants to laugh -- //Faith, your erection is poking me in the stomach, knock it off!// -- and the vampire is *kissing* her, greedily.

Making it that much more -- much more...and they are both crashing to the floor, the stained creaky boards, the brunette shoving, holding, pressing down with a weight and will that's frightfully convincing, fairly certain it all started out as a quasi-wrestling match, but then ---

The matter of a mouth trying to eat her, in both understandings. Hands groping inappropriate places. Tearing at her beige blouse (one Dawn handed to her, on *the* night?, with a nervous smile, trembling) yanking her jeans down *roughly*. The rip of clothing, metallic button clanging across the chilled surface --- *loud* noises in the silence, greater than deafening.

Still struggling her best, out of habit, //this isn't//, and she can feel the hard length of the cock against her thigh, random thoughts at breakneck speed, and she doesn't even realise she said something, but must have, for her lips just moved...

'' -- them wear a blonde wig?''

Pause. But grip on the smaller woman underneath continuously 'unbudgeable'.

''...No.''

Obviously puzzled, but clear 'I-find-artificial-hair-severly-off-putting' intonation -- has to believe that, because the ex-Slayer is wearing her gameface now, first time shown, can't tell *anything* from it other than hunger and (the irritatingly (desireable) vicarious blankness, alright with the pain and contentment, all the same).

Yellow eyes staring, round and baleful, like the moon frequently is, making snaring headlights down at her, and the only thing Buffy really can *see* is them, as well as the halo of shiny shine far above. The rest of Faith is only a looming purposeful contour.

Next thing she's certain of; corrugated forehead bumping against her own flat one, violent kiss crushed on her, biting at, tongue push pushing, and her hands (traitorous) grabbing fistfuls of dark thick hair, *pulling in*, drinking the feeling, and knowing, gut-sensation, the tiredness won't go away, won't.

Letting this be, letting it escape from her, not hers to hold no longer, not hers to.

No longer a fight worth having. //Nothing's worth having.// Just...

Wasn't it time soon where she didn't need *any* of this anymore, and feels herself go slack, calm, unresisting, like flicking a switch, at the command, the redirection of it.

And the blonde Slayer has seconds, maybe, where there could have been something different. But. The pair of jeans, panties to the conservative side, already around, past her ankles, the slender other body taking the place, space, and a fractured moment --- the jutting object brushing her heated pulsing point, the almost-there shiver, oh God, so damned necessary, vital to it all...

Buffy gives a quiet, near modest gasp when it finally slips inside her, delivered on a quick thrust from the hips on top of her.

Pushing up on one elbow then, throwing the other arm around the convenient neck, leverage desperately wanted all of a sudden, wrapping her legs around a frantic waist, delicious scrape of leather straps. Long groan, doesn't know if it was from her, and finding that razor-mouth, biting back, smashing against, swallowing the shared spit and the sheer pointlessness of this.

(But oh there's warmth, only radiating from herself, nerves phantomremembering they were once raw, sensitive, longing, before placed in the grave.)

Even if it shouldn't -- the firmness within feels *good*, and it's so long since she's felt anything, the discomfort, the hoit moistness, lifting, holding herself up, letting herself sink down, and again, repeat, create the old fuck-rhythm, forcing this *in*, forcing this through, cruel lips ravaging her, taste of smoke and leftover blood, coated with.

Death. Most assuredly.

And that was the difference, wasn't it? *Doesn't* make this alright, even remotely okay, but it's what she so *needs* -- to have Death take her back, or just here, exactly what this is: cold vessel of inanimation, screwing her into temporary Life on a filthy floor, half-darkness closing in around them, locking her helplessly in the shimmer of uncircumcised sensations.

Because it's what Faith is now. Not new and improved //maybe?//, just the same shit over again, and Buffy can't help any of it, not even when the loud moan bursts out as one of her small nipples is suddenly sucked harshly through open torn clothes. *Knows* she could lose it between all that sharpness in there, fucking 'picket fence teeth', and Christ, only makes her *wetter*, spread *wider* to the plunging stiffness moving in-out.

She is dead, and *she* is no longer dead (and still is) --- and what she's secretly wanted to do every single time she's seen Spike back in the (un)familiar environment, what she itched to do when she met Angel days ago, is to *slap* him across his angular face, because -- //Dammit, don't you see, you're not *alive*, not *human*, just...don't.//

What both deceased men respectively do. Apologies for themselves. Although it was definitely the wrong answer to tick in the Good Slayer Test -- could sympathise with the deep-felt *wanting* to goddamn rop kith and kin apart. Wasn't ashamed to admit there *had* been a revision since having returned.

Brain cells altered, trapped in a motionless skull (paled gold hair sticking) which had finally been allowed for once to *rest* //oh God yes// in wrapping blackened earth (worms trailing *through* her rottenness, merging), pellucid Freudian womb case -- all of it, doesn't matter doesn't matter.

//Did they all honestly think I would return *normal*? That I would be right as rain?//

(Thoughts of her mother during the first hours on that not-ending night after she'd been deposited in her own room, cold walls, mausoleum walls, numb on the bed.

Didn't even miss her. Should have scared her -- was *aware* of the fact.)

The other woman collecting her pelvis up now, fingers clawing into rounded buttocks, pulling her firmly up, onto the thrusting lap by slim hips, leaving Buffy no choice than to lie back and.

Take. every. ounce.

Penetrating her wetly on the shaft, increasingly hard-harder, slamming into her, and no doubt as to Faith having plenty of practice in the 'butch department' of recent years -- is all the blonde can form as something resembling a thought right then.

Panting like a dog, torrid pleasure scratching gazillion-numbered nails through her small frame, eyes already shutting out, and maybe she can pretend she's with a member of the human male model, declared het girl after all, //no chance in *hell* Willow's getting her little victory dance on this// --- only...not.

It doesn't work in her favour. Minor detail to the grand scheme.

No way to mistake the feel of breasts against her, now that the vampire's leaning in, over, bracing on one strong crooked white arm. Hooking the other under her squirming supple ass, jerking her up.

Continuing to drive into her. To fuck her. Hard.

Quite the quiet participant, which *should* be a surprise: only giving low infrequent animal growls, face scrunched up as from suffering the after-effects of a lemon attack, working her entire body into one big powerful punishing undulation, pummeling the supine woman's privates with a vengeance ---

--- before nostrils flare, wounded groan spills, open demon mouth diving down, eagle on midnight air, seeking out the side of the neck with the There-Brand, the *mark* which ties and tears them both apart, needs to be erased, shredded into something else, give it a new dead meaning.

Bites into lushness with a squishy sound, not unlike the one heard a little further southward.

Sinking in, out, in. Both places.

Buffy comes screaming, convulsing, clutching as if afraid to *be* afraid.

It lasts for the time a heatbeat races; thundering blood, loud like only struggling life can be, squirting its way out into freedom, into suction, swallowing, hips trashing all over the place, stilll getting properly fucked, and when Faith lifts her head for a frozen sec, to howl, moan, own climax exploding like a hand grenade...

Blood. Her blood. Does it remain *hers* once it's outside the confinement of her body? Was never good at the philosophical questions, why she'd had Giles, waste of goddamn *time*, when all you could do was to fight, fight, kill the next evilness which looked potentially up to no good, and it's landing down on her slack face in red wet ropy splashes now.

Like semen in a porn movie, and some of it gets between her parted lips, unmistakable iron taste -- is enough to shake a slight corner of the fogginess off, the dribble continuing, as the hovering vampire countenance adopts a definitely *nasty* edge to it, ripping a throaty snarl from it before lunging down for another taste.

Solid fist shooting up, securely, effectively breaking the demon's jaw with a sort of dry snapping *crggh*.

Body tumbling back, not even emitting anything like a pained noise (which *is* greatly unsatisfying), only this grumbled displeased *grunt*, and Buffy tries very hard not to hear the brief sucking sound as the slick phallus slides out of her limp form.

Slowly sitting up, //stop. shaking.//, pressing one unsteady frail hand against her drooling wound, offensive heavy smell of sex and spent life fluids, and Faith just lies there, boneless at her feet, mouth sickeningly *lopsided*, looking out at her under the plane of forehead ridges, and even through the dense bat look, her expression only communicates as 'wildly amused'.

Which *isn't* contrary to expectation -- nonetheless insulting some tiny buried part of a long gone virginal schoolgirl inside the blonde.

Focusing on the task of calming her breathing, nothing but that, that and the pulsing of her escaping blood, trickling between icy digits. Shadows surrounding, and long minutes with only her jumbled mind whispering to her with Joyce murmurs...

What *is* contrary to expectation, though, is:

''Where you going now?''

From the undead woman.

Asked with a slurred voice, interestedly, forcing the words out of that deep dark animal gullet, rattle from useless mouth. Some teeth had been knocked loose, miniature bone ships sailing in a sea of blood-thickened saliva.

Wonderede whether *they* grew out themselves again.

Didn't know how she knew, because was it that obvious? *This* emphasising No-Turning-Back, fleeing from Sunnydale never to set sights on the town again, suicidal Slayer on the run, and what was able to surely scare the living daylights out of Buffy was the mere notion of the former prisoner having actually gone *insightful* after a stay in jail, and no, couldn't deal with that, not...

''I -- don't know.''

Somewhere warm, maybe? Somewhere to close your eyes and all which would surround you would be cotton-like and pillow-shielding. Swamp, or a bayou, and Jesus, here she went again with the Freudian womb symbols. Wasn't *blind* to it.

Faith, still sprawled on the floor, not moving a fraction, but glazed eyes locked on the Slayer's bleeding neck, obscenely long tongue snaking out to lick around her dripping mouth, retrieving her own blood, the other female's blood back in.

Made Buffy keep a shudder in check, pull her gaping ruined clothes prudently closer to her tingling body. Should send the *right* signal.

''Heard New Mexico should be the grand tourist magnet during this time of the month.''

Rising from the still body, rusty exhalation, black pupils dilating and continuing to *follow* her, even as she started to back away, back out, in the direction of the nearest exit, holding onto the blouse, pulling jeans, underwear on again the best she could while clumsily moving.

Dildo, pointing like a crimson glossy (from *herself*) accusing finger at her.

Demon fallen from grace, looking as she had just been flung out from the sky, crumpled, cracked as she finally landed.

The broken mouth was trying to *smile*.

The people she would meet outside would probably take her for a rape victim, so, nothing to worry about then, common enough sight here, simply needed to get back to the car, feel speed, movement, aerodynamics, get the fuck *away*.

''If I ever see you again -- I'll *kill* you, Faith. I swear!'' Spat vehemently and oh dear God, *please*, don't let her...

A chuckle. Not a charming thing coming from the smashed creature, lying halfway-inside, halfway-outside the circle of light, the last view she had of the undead Slayer before scrambling out, losing sight of her, losing (oh yes what else?).

''Sure thing, B... Next time *you* get to wield the ''stake''. Promise.''

And it followed Buffy out and into the night.

The images filtered into her retinas, (words are dangerous), the searing and bile in her throat as ---

The sight of whiteness showing through all the blood in a leer which could only be for *her*. Which meant something *in particular* and she knew and knew and *knew*.

That knowing glint in complete ebony eyes, although the face was still vamped-out.

Until then.

End.